Unforgivable Sins
by Cr1mson5
Summary: "Sometimes, it's best if you just don't care too much."
1. Fever

**I still don't own anything that belongs to DC Comics; otherwise, it wouldn't belong to DC Comics, now, would it?**

**Rated T for violence, some language, and possibly some character death later on**

***STOP RIGHT HERE! If you **_**haven't**_** read ****Fallen from Grace****, **_**go back and read it before this one!**_** You **_**will**_** need the information from that story to understand ****Unforgivable Sins****!***

Getting Tim into the building was not the problem for Jason. So many tenants came home drunk, drugged, or high (or dragged somebody there who was) that nobody really paid much attention to the sweating, delirious teenager in Jason's arms. The problem wasn't even the fact that Tim was convulsing by the time they reached Jason's apartment. No, the problem was figuring out exactly what to do with the kid once he was inside.

Jason, one arm wrapped around Tim's waist to hold him upright and the other hand clutching the arm the kid had thrown over his shoulders, painstakingly made his way through his living room to the couch. He gently laid Tim down on the cushions, practically wrestling with the shuddering teen to get his jacket and shoes off of him. Thinking fast, he dashed into the bedroom and pulled a light sheet and a pillow off the bed, but when he returned to give them to Tim, he found that the boy was now thrashing wildly.

"Aw, shit!" Jason spat, diving for the pair of pale arms the second he saw them fly up into the air again. He held Tim down as best he could, trying not to look up at his face so as to avoid having to admit to seeing the kid's eyes roll up in the back of his head. He pinned the boy's arms to his sides and kept his legs pressed against the couch, and it was pretty damn hard, too, what with the way he was convulsing. It went on like that for another fifteen minutes until Tim finally slipped into unconsciousness, either totally exhausted or much worse than Jason thought. Carefully, he withdrew from the teen's side and retrieved the pillow and sheet off the floor. He gently lifted Tim's head to position the pillow underneath it before covering him with the sheet.

After that, Jason really wasn't sure what he was supposed to do. He couldn't pretend that he actually _liked _the kid—well, not much more than he liked his other brothers, anyway—and he wasn't totally sure taking care of a sick Timmy was his responsibility, anyway. Weren't they supposed to be bitter enemies or something? Besides, the way the kid had distanced himself from everybody else the past year or so, did he even really _want_ to be here? It wasn't like he was in his right mind, anyway, the state he was in.

Jason contemplated calling Bruce, or maybe Dick, talking them into picking the kid up. Then he pushed the thought away like it was the plague. _Bad idea, Todd, _he berated himself mentally. _If they don't get on your case about it, he will._

Besides, he had a promise to keep. He couldn't break that promise if he tried.

So, instead of pawning him off to whoever would take him (unlucky bastard they would be), he decided he'd just let the kid stay there for the time being. Jason cautiously measured Tim's temperature, grimacing when he saw the resulting number. A hundred-plus degrees Fahrenheit didn't exactly come out to be the best scenario for the two of them. He sighed. _Guess I'll be playing nurse tonight._

He was busy dabbing the kid's forehead with a cold rag when Tim shot upright, panting and screaming. Wild gray eyes scanned over the whole room, never settling on anything or focusing at all. Jason reached up and grabbed his arm, which, thankfully, attracted his attention. "Where—where—?" Tim gasped.

"You're fine, kid," Jason assured him somewhat gruffly. "You're safe. You're at my place."

"Where—Bruce—where—"

Jason blinked. _Oh._ "He's not here, kid. But it's okay. You're safe."

Tim gave him a look like he couldn't quite remember who Jason was before sinking back down onto the pillow and closing his eyes.

Much of the first day didn't go much better for them. If Tim wasn't trying to ask where Bruce was every five minutes, he was hallucinating or trying to escape. Jason hated the look on the kid's face every time he had to hold him down to the couch…but he'd be lying if he said it wasn't a little bit funny. At last, he just gave up and dosed the kid with enough morphine to keep him still all night.

He also gave up on sleeping in his own room. He found out—too quickly for his own tastes, at that—that instinct would force him to get up and go see if Tim was okay every time he whimpered, which always seemed to come just after Jason had fallen asleep. So, grumbling curses under his breath the whole way, he drug the covers and remaining pillow off his bed and curled up on the living room floor.

He woke up the second day to an incessant tapping on his shoulder. When he sat up, he saw Tim sitting beside him, poking him over and over and over again. "Hey, kid," he greeted him, forcing the curtness from his voice as best he could manage at that hour. "How do you feel?"

Tim's eyes met his, and Jason pressed his lips together to fight the urge to shake his head. There was a vacancy in his expression that Jason had never seen before on anyone, let alone this particular person. It was almost like his mind had totally blanked, like he didn't register anything around him. Jason gently pushed away the hand that was jabbing at his shoulder and murmured, "Let's get you laid back down, okay?" He hoisted Tim up onto his feet, got him back over to the couch, and then watched him fall asleep within minutes of being covered back up. He stuck the thermometer back into Tim's mouth, praying that the fever would've gone down and finding out that prayers (about that, at least) were still hopeless.

Getting the kid to focus enough to eat or drink during the day was impossible. Bringing the fever down was…not so much. It was much easier to bathe Tim's forehead in cool water when he was just lying there, staring up at the ceiling and not doing a whole lot of anything. Of course, attempting conversations was a little bit weird. Every time Jason tried to say something or get his little brother to talk, Tim would just give him that creepy look again and blink bemusedly at him. Jason eventually turned the TV on for noise to make himself feel a little less fidgety.

At one point in the afternoon, he noticed that Tim was grimacing and holding his stomach. Jason stood over him, examining him with his eyes. "You okay?"

Tim didn't even cut Jason a little bit of his attention.

"Are you hungry? Are you sick?" Jason paused, figuring the next question was worth a shot. "Should I call Bruce?"

Tim's eyes flashed up to Jason's face. He'd gotten eerily used to seeing them glazed over or dull, but this time, there was recognition in them. He gave his head the minutest shake before letting his eyes close yet again.

Thankfully, he was mostly still and silent the third day, spending much of his time sleeping on the couch. His fever was coming down, and he seemed less panicky and brain-damaged than the first two days. Of course, that wasn't saying a whole lot, considering the condition he'd been in. His more lucid moments consisted mostly of just asking if the Imperium had showed up for him yet. Jason had to bite his lip at that—_was he getting worse?_—but he stayed strong throughout the day, refusing to answer the question no matter how many times it was asked and no matter how much Tim seemed upset that he wasn't getting anything out of his older brother.

Jason got up on the fourth day determined that he could not keep Tim there any longer. Making sure the kid was still asleep, he crept into the kitchen with the phone and dialed Dick's number. The second ring hadn't even sounded yet before he heard a familiar voice, weak and scratchy, but recognizable, croaking at him from the living room.

"Jason…?"


	2. Keeping Promises

**To deter negative reviews for this right now…this is very obviously an alternate universe fic.**

Jason looked like he seriously wanted to be anyplace other than that, and I couldn't blame him. Last time I'd checked, we were still enemies. I mean, it's not like I don't get along with my siblings—okay, so maybe it is. But never in a million years did I ever expect Jason to take me in. And I wasn't expecting him to keep me, either.

He strode right over to the couch and pushed me back down onto my pillow none-too-gently. "You stay here," he ordered. "I'm going to go call somebody who knows what to do with you—like Dick or Bruce."

My hand shot up and gripped his wrist. "No!" I cried sharply. "Don't!" The last of what little bit of strength I still had left drained from my body, and I eased back onto the couch slowly, taking a deep breath. "I…I don't want them here."

In any normal situation, that wouldn't have stopped him from calling anyway. But, thankfully, absolutely nothing about that situation was normal (including the fact that we weren't trying to kill each other yet), so my words at least distracted Jason for the moment. He took a seat on the edge of the coffee table and gazed at me with something like mild interest. "That's something I never thought I'd hear out of _you_, kid."

I draped a forearm over my eyes to block out the light and maybe help that damn stress migraine. "Yeah, well, this is some_place_ I never thought I'd be," I sighed. "So…why? Why'd you bring me here? Did Bruce send you?"

"Oh, no, Ali did. She's worried about you, you know. Told me you've been…up to stuff. Actually, I'm a little surprised about that. I didn't think you had it in you."

"That makes two of us."

Everything was quiet for another few minutes, and I thought Jason might actually leave me alone until he spoke up again. "So, is there a reason you've been sick on my couch for the past few days or so, kid?"

The information was not lost on me, I guarantee you, but I was too busy debating whether or not to give an answer that was honest versus simpler to care. I chose simpler, because I was hoping it'd end the conversation. "Yeah, but I don't think you'd want to hear it."

"Try me."

His tone said that he was crossing his arms, glaring at me with enough blazing anger to singe my hair. I could feel the heat of his frustration radiating off of him, and I knew, right then and there, that he wouldn't leave me alone _or_ do what I asked _or_ stop glowering until I told him, because he wanted to know why he'd been put in the position of having to deal with me when I was out of it. I sighed. "You watch the news at all lately?"

"Why the hell would I watch the news? I'm never awake when it's on."

"Good point. I've kind of been…in the news…for the past few months."

"You mean whatever your alter ego happens to be right now has been in the news for the past few months."

I nodded. "They're making me into a criminal, Jason. I only ever…I did a few things. But I never did anything like what they're trying to make everyone believe."

"A classic frame job, then, huh?"

"You got it."

"Anybody I know so I can go beat the shit out of them?"

"I sincerely hope not." I moved my forearm slightly to peer out at him, gauging his response. He was nodding very slowly, his eyes still trained on me. _Well, he hasn't kicked me out yet, so…keep going? _"Did I say anything?" I asked, straining my neck so that my head was upright. "When I was out of it, I mean. Did I say anything?"

Jason scratched his chin thoughtfully. "You asked where Bruce was, you mumbled something about the League of Assassins, and you asked if the Imperium had showed up for you yet," he replied.

My eyes closed, a sigh escaped my lips, and my head was back down on the pillow before I knew it. "Damn," I breathed. In case you hadn't noticed, my luck is so bad that it doesn't exist.

"I take it you weren't planning on explaining that, were you, kid?"

"Well, to be fair, I never planned on ending up here." I took a deep breath. "It's just more of the crazy life of an ex-Bat. It's really nothing I'd want you to get dragged into."

Jason reached over and flicked me, his middle finger thumping against my temple. "I made a promise, okay? I promised my wife that I'd be here to make sure your precious little head doesn't get shot off your damn shoulders, and I can't do that if you don't tell me everything. So, suck it up, be a man, and just let your mouth move faster than your head. You're real good at that, anyway. Besides, you forget that I'm also an ex-Bat. Not too much you can say that'll surprise me, little bird."

I decided to let that one slide and opened my mouth to start talking and finding that letting my words come out faster than my thoughts could hinder their progress was easier than it sounded. "The Imperium is running the world, and not necessarily behind everyone's backs. There are front-page news stories all the time that they're responsible for; people just don't realize…just don't know it's them. I know how crazy this sounds, and I know it's probably just a suicide mission, but—"

"You have to bring them down," Jason finished for me. "You feel compelled. It's beyond you to just stand by and watch them think for everyone else."

I gave a tiny nod, drowsiness beginning to creep back in. "That's pretty much it."

We sat there in silence for awhile, neither of us really sure of what to say. I could feel my breathing slowing and my body relaxing back into the couch. I was almost asleep again when I heard Jason proclaim, "I'm in."

My eyes snapped open, and I propped myself up on an elbow, eyeing him incredulously. "What?"

"I'm in. I don't like it any more than you do, kid, but regardless of how much we might hate each other, I promised to protect you, and I'm planning on keeping that promise. If this all-powerful secret society or whatever the hell you call it really _is_ after you, you can't trust anyone, right? You can't let anyone in? Well, you're wrong, because you've got me. And I will personally kill anyone who screws with you. But just so we're clear...it's for Ali, not for you, okay?" He shrugged. "Besides, it sounds fun."

I thought about it. I could've told him any number of things. I could've said I was just fine on my own, but, well…we both had ample evidence to the contrary. I could've told him that I already had someone in the League of Assassins looking out for me, but I knew better. By then, Pru, if she'd been found out, would've already been dead. I could've told him that I was going to turn myself then, but I wasn't sure how he'd react to that. So, at long last, I realized what he was saying. If I wanted to survive—and I did—teaming up with Jason was my only option. He was the only person who was even remotely close enough to being an ally I could trust that was qualified to help in this situation. I nodded slowly. "Okay, then. I guess we're going in together. I have promises of my own to keep with this. But make no mistake, Jason; I'll trust you with my safety, but I'm not stupid enough to put my life into your hands. If you try anything at all, I swear you'll regret it."

Jason locked eyes with me for a moment, his gaze cold, hard, and unwavering. I was surprised that I had the energy to hold his stare without lying back down. After a moment or two, he snorted out a laugh and got up to go back into the kitchen. "Good. I'd consider it an insult if you'd said anything else there, kid." 


	3. Jackets

"First things first, kid. You'll need to be as streamlined as possible out there, with as little on you that sticks out as can be managed—common sense. So, no matter how impossible this is gonna sound, we've gotta get rid of that stupid-looking cape of yours."

We were sitting at Jason's kitchen table, organizing for the task ahead of us. I must admit that, childish though it may have been, I bristled a bit at Jason's remark. "Why?" I demanded.

Jason rolled his eyes. "A few reasons: one, nobody will ever take you seriously if you run around in a bad Halloween costume for the rest of your life; two, it's a hazard to your health and safety because it's easy for someone to get a hold of and pin you to the ground by and/or strangle you with; and three, it looks stupid, and I'm not working with you if you look stupid."

I licked my lips and raised my cup for another sip of coffee, scrambling to come up with a coherent comeback for that. About a minute later, I sighed, defeated, and asked, "What was _your_ idea?"

God, teamwork sucked.

Jason pushed away from the table and disappeared into the hallway. I heard a door open and shut, and then he came back into the room. He was clutching something in his hands, and he didn't even wait until I was looking up at him fully before tossing it at me. My hands sunk into soft, cool, sleek material, and I stared at the thing in my fists with disbelief. It was a beat-up old leather jacket, the color a midnight shade of black around the edges that faded into a dark gray on the back, under the arms, and at the elbows and wrists. I glanced up at Jason, then back down at the jacket, and then back up at Jason. "You're kidding, right?"

Jason scowled at me. "Look, kid, I know this isn't really your forte, but suck it up. It's gonna keep you from getting killed out there." He shrugged. "Besides, it's not like I'm using it anymore. I outgrew it two years ago."

I sighed again and stared down at Jason's old jacket. It was…it was kind of like the one I'd had a while back. It looked about my size, anyway. And as much as I hated to admit it, Jason had a point. A jacket was a lot harder to grab onto than a cape. After a moment of pause, I nodded. "Fine, I'll take it."

Jason's smirk was almost as infuriating as the fact that he actually knew what he was talking about. "Good. I knew you'd cave." He pulled out his chair, turned it around, and sat down, crossing his arms over the back casually. "So, little bird, you know the most about these guys. What's the plan?"

I shook my head. "We can't go full-on attack, obviously. We're just two guys, and they're an entire organization. The best thing to do would be to hit at individual assets one after another, but…" I trailed off, unsure of how to say anything without it sounding like I didn't know what I was doing. "I don't really…I mean…I wasn't that far ahead yet."

"My God, for once you _didn't_ plan every step of the way."

"But—the good news is that I think there might be a way we can figure this out. The bad news is…it puts us both right back into the line of fire."

Jason shrugged. "Lay it on me."

"I was in Los Angeles just a few days ago. There's somebody there that'll be able to help us. We'll just have to force him to do it." I took a sip of coffee, ignoring how cold it already was, and continued. "His name's Silas Cranmer. I strong-armed his boss into a business dealing with me and a League contact—"

"Hold up," Jason interrupted, holding up his hands to silence me. "Which League are we talking about here?"

"Think al Ghul."

"Damn it. Are they after you, too?"

I threw my hands up in defeat. "Yes, no, I don't know? All he said the last time he kidnapped me for a little chat session was that they'd stay mostly in the shadows of my operation but would interfere only when he deemed it necessary. Hell, for all I know, they could be waiting outside right now! I haven't really had the time to order my list of priorities, Jason!"

He rubbed his temples in exasperation. "Look, I'm not trying to be much of a jerk, kid, but you should've mentioned this beforehand."

"Well, my apologies for having been poisoned by a backstabbing, coldhearted son of a bitch."

Jason brushed it off with a roll of his eyes and a shake of his head. "Something tells me I don't want to know. But this business deal with Cranmer's boss—what happened to that?"

"The guy's dead."

If he paled at all, it was either well hidden by the lighting in the room or just a figment of my imagination. "How was I not expecting that? Hero-types always get _somebody_ killed."

I felt my facial expression twist into a scowl. "Hey, in case you haven't been listening for the last few times we've talked about this, I'm not exactly playing the hero-type anymore."

There was a slight pause. "So, what, he didn't exactly live up to your standards anymore or something? That what it was?"

"No. The Imperium decided the world was better off without him."

"Part of their frame job, I take it."

"I'd show you the pictures, but I don't exactly have them anymore."

Jason nodded. "However you look at it, though, it's still technically your fault that he died. So, I'm guessing our guy isn't gonna be very happy to see you again."

I shrugged. "He might not even recognize me. He wasn't there when I found Macbeth the first time."

I had to fight the urge to clap my hands over my mouth the second that Jason's head whipped around and he glared hard at me. True, I semi-trusted him to help me, but there were some bits of information I'd intended to leave out of the picture. The name of Cranmer's late employer had been one of them—until I let it slip, that is. Jason might not have been a Bat at the time, but that didn't mean he didn't know his stuff. Lukas Macbeth had been somewhat of an attention addict. A name like his made it into the news more often than someone like him could really afford, simply because he loved the sparkle of the flashing cameras all around him and the way he could win the reporters over with a smile and a few meaningful words. Even if he hadn't been monitoring his activity, even if he hadn't necessarily categorized him as a potential threat, Jason would've known about the exploits of a businessman of the caliber of that man. "Did you say 'Macbeth', as in _Lukas_ Macbeth?" Jason demanded.

I swallowed hard and sighed. "Yeah, I did. Rumor had it that he was in with the Imperium, and even if he wasn't, he was a valuable asset to have up my sleeve."

Jason scoffed and shook his head, projecting condescension. "You're in deep shit now, kid."

A deep breath calmed my nerves sufficiently to keep me from blowing up at him again. "Look, all I'm saying is that we don't need to be cautious to the extreme here. Cranmer works for the Imperium, yes, but they can't necessarily predict my every move; otherwise, they'd already be on our asses, hauling us off to God knows where to do God knows what to us. It's a high likelihood that they wouldn't have planned on me going back to L.A. _or_ going back with help. So long as we can get there without drawing too much attention to ourselves, we can start to work on this, see what we can't accomplish on our own."

"What exactly are we hoping to learn from Cranmer?"

"Well, most specifically, we're looking for names and locations of the Imperium's big guns, as well as any information we'll need to get to them." I glanced away and back quickly to buy a second to find words that would sound like an experienced person. "He won't sell them out too easily."

Jason's expression went from dead serious and a little incredulous to a wickedly satisfied grin in a split second. "Leave that part up to me. You just worry about getting us there in one piece. How's that sound?"

It took me a few minutes to get what he was saying. He was still entirely willing to help me, despite the huge pile of trouble I'd just dragged him into. But, then again, it was Jason, so hell with logic, right? I stuck out my hand for a shake. "It sounds like we've got a deal."

**Sorry for the long update time! Life got super-hectic with school and stuff, but I think I'm mostly back on track now.**


	4. Big Guns

Dick would've liked to have been able to say that he'd never seen Bruce so angry before, but it would've been a lie.

The elder Batman was positively furious, storming into the Hall of Justice without so much as a hello to anyone, even to his son. Instead, the first words out of his mouth, a harsh shout, were, "Tim's escaped."

It was almost as though he'd walked into the room and said, "J'onn just won the lottery." Or, "Diana's been elected President of the United States." At least, the shock effect was the same. Simultaneously, all activities were dropped, all conversation ceased, and everyone's eyes were locked onto him. It took a while before anyone worked up words.

"What do you mean, 'Tim's escaped'?" Kara demanded, being careful with her question.

Bruce shook his head at her. "I took him back to Gotham with me—was going to try and reason with him—but he escaped."

"How'd it happen?" Dick demanded.

"You know your brother. It was always his job to be the quick one, and he's damn good at his job."

Well…if not a proper explanation, then it was a valid point.

"Do you have a plan of action you'd like to propose, Bruce?" Diana asked.

"We use any and all means necessary to track him down. Don't be afraid to let him know we mean business. Tim can be dangerous to himself and the general populace if left alone for too long." He crossed the room and went to the communicator. "Since I couldn't bring him around the first time…maybe it's best if we call in some reinforcements who might have a better effect on him."

**~R~**

"You sure this'll work, kid?"

"His boss was a coward, Jason," I retorted. "What makes you think he'll be any different?"

Gearing up in an elevator was harder than hell to accomplish, mainly because of how fast you had to move. Armor had to be squared away, masks in place, weapons at the ready, and adrenalin pumping through our systems. It was tougher than I thought to get Jason's guns loaded up, and my own staff was painfully uncomfortable against my side, tucked beneath the safety of my jacket. Jason, having given up on my ability to load his guns, slammed a fresh cartridge into his Glock and remarked, "He was the bodyguard, right? It's kind of his job to stand up to guys like us."

"Right-hand man, Jay, it's not really the same thing."

"Keep telling yourself that."

The elevator opened up on the seemingly empty floor containing the Macbeth penthouse. Jason and I stepped out cautiously, making our way quickly, noiselessly, down the hallway toward the penthouse. We were maybe five doors down from it when someone called out from behind us, "Stop right there!"

I whirled to see an armed guard rounding the corner, aiming his gun and leveling to fire. I reached into my jacket for a shuriken—but Jason was faster, getting off two shots that impacted with the man's barrel chest and sent spurts of blood spraying onto the wall and floor. I glared at him. "Hood—" I started venomously.

"Save it!" he snapped, turning to fire behind us. I followed the motion to see more guards emerging from the penthouse, packing what looked like some heavy-caliber pistols.

"I got this," I called over my shoulder, running into the thick of them to deliver a rather impressive kick to the face of the first man I came upon.

Was there a reason I dove into the middle of the group? Hell yes. Attention was good, publicity was good, and no doubt that once this made its way to the press (which I knew it would, if the Imperium had their way, which they almost always do) the media would jump all over it as a recurring attack by the mysterious Red Robin. But did that mean I wanted more people dead because of me? Minimal body count meant nothing to Jason, so if I threw myself in there, he couldn't shoot. There was too much of a risk of hitting me.

I figured he got the picture when I heard a muttered, "Goddamn it, Red" from behind me. I would've made a snarky comment, but I was too busy trying to not get hit in the face by a huge bear of a man swinging his shotgun like a baseball bat. I ducked beneath the wildly flailing weapon and sent its wielder crashing into the wall with a kick to the back. A bullet whizzed over my shoulder, and I turned to see Jason pushing the guard against the wall by the throat, forcing the gun upward toward the ceiling while he cut off the windpipe. The other guards lay on the floor, either unconscious or dead, but it wasn't really the moment to ask or care which it was.

A roar behind me alerted me to the danger still lurking there. _Oh, yeah, forgot to take care of him. _I dropped low, pulling out a knife on the way and driving it through the guard's knee the second I felt my weight balance onto my haunches. He tumbled unceremoniously to the floor in front of me, and I finished him off with a quick, hard right cross.

When I saw Jason's hand reach out and scoop up the shotgun, I looked up in something like surprise and ferocity, anticipating…something. The adrenalin wasn't completely out of my system yet, so I couldn't do much other than stare at him when he held the weapon out to me, barrel down. "Take it," he urged. "You're gonna need it."

I reached out, hesitantly, and took it, hefting it to my shoulder. And let me tell you, it always looks easy on TV because those aren't usually real shotguns. The real thing, it's harder than hell to hang onto because it's so damn heavy. I wasn't used to handling shotguns, sure, but still. "Let's go," I said brusquely, leading the way into the penthouse.

I won't say it was too quiet, because there was Beethoven streaming softly through the room from a stereo system in the far corner of the main room. I recognized the piece: "Moonlight Sonata", Opus 27, No. 2. Suddenly, I was back in Drake Manor, the place I'd lived for fifteen and a half years out of my life, sitting in the library and coaxing the notes out of the ancient grand piano Mom and Dad had stashed in there. The fingers of my right hand began to flutter along in time with the music against the cold metal of the shotgun, and I thought, for a moment, that I could almost taste Mom's infamous chocolate-chip scones and smell Dad's cedar-scented aftershave.

I didn't realize I'd frozen until the skin on the back of my neck prickled, and someone was right behind me.

I whipped around and hefted up the shotgun into a ready position even as Jason readied his own weapons, all but shouting, "Not so fast, you bastard."

Cranmer stood before me, a Smith and Wesson leveled and aimed right between my eyes, looking ravenous and almost desperate. I avoided looking down the barrel and instead opted for his eyes, not wavering from my stance. "Drop the gun," I ordered.

He fidgeted a bit, but didn't do it.

"Drop the damn thing _now_!" I yelled, pumping the fore-end.

Cranmer looked like he was debating it, but he finally bent down and placed the gun on the floor.

"Kick it to me," Jason piped up, both guns drawn. Cranmer spared him one glance before deciding it was in his best interest to do so. I motioned toward the couch with the shotgun, and Cranmer, hands held up in the air and head bowed, walked over and took a seat. Only then did Jason and I lower our weapons.

"I don't believe we've met before," I began, conversationally.

"But I still know you," Cranmer assured me. "You're the brat who thinks he can take on the Imperium. But your friend here,"—he gestured vaguely to Jason—"I've got no idea about him."

I smirked at him, walking around the coffee table to sit on the edge. "Believe me; you'll get to know him real well. So, it seems like you're running the place now that Macbeth's dead."

"My late employer was rather…generous…in his legal gifts to me."

"Hmm, I see. Did it bother at all to kill him, or was that just incentive?"

Cranmer burst into hearty laughter. "Me—you think I'd kill Macbeth?" he roared, as though it was the funniest thing he'd ever heard. "Oh, kid…you're even blinder than I thought. Killing people is grunt work. I can't afford to get my hands dirty on something beneath my paygrade."

I was taken aback a bit by that. I didn't quite know what to say for another second or two. "Then I guess our agreement didn't blow over too well with the superiors, did it?"

Cranmer paled a fraction of a degree, and his smile turned a bit strained. "What did you come here looking for?"

"Easy," I replied, tugging at the sleeve of my jacket. "We came for the men who decided Macbeth needed to become a martyr for the cause."

"No one decided that but Macbeth. He chose his path; everyone else chose theirs."

"But somebody had to choose the path that would mean he died. Otherwise, I'd be talking to him right now, wouldn't I?"

Cranmer shook his head. "If you're searching for information, boy, you'll never get it out of me. You think you can win with your little intimidation game. You think all your little tactics you learned in your training will work. Well, I've got a news flash for you, sonny; this isn't Gotham City, and the man who trained you taught us every trick you know. There isn't anything you can do that'll make me talk."

I sat there for a moment, gazing at him, wondering if he was right. Was I on a doomed course? Was I really destined to fail? It seemed likely, if not certain. I didn't deny the sheer size of the organization, not to mention the influence they held over the world in general. And because I was too busy thinking about that, I didn't have any more comebacks, so I just stood up, walked over to the window, and said, "Hood, he's all yours."

Jason stood in front of the couch and cracked his knuckles. "'Cranmer', is it?" he asked. "Well, Cranmer…I think I'm gonna have fun with this."

I ignored as best I could the sounds of blows connecting with flesh. Periodically, I checked the time on the clock hanging over the flatscreen. When about ten or fifteen minutes had gone by, I called out, "You ready to talk to me now, Silas?"

The whimpered response was something like an extremely slurred, "Yes, please, _God_, please, please…!"

I nodded. "That's enough, Hood." Jason stepped back, breathing hard with a feral expression on his face. His gloves were wet, and Cranmer's face was bloody where he'd been hit. I sat back down on the coffee table in front of the man, snapping to get his attention. "I want the names of all the big guns, everybody who's a major contributor to this scheme of the Imperium's. I want every last goddamn name on that list."


End file.
